Page 109 of Savage Saint
"My mother wanted me to be a doctor." The admission comes slowly, painfully, like he's pulling shards of glass from a wound that never properly healed. "Made me promise I'd go to university. Swore on her rosary that I'd be different. Saidshe didn't want me to become like my father. Didn't want me trapped in this life of blood and violence. She wanted me to use my hands to heal, not hurt."
He looks down at those hands now, scarred and strong, the knuckles bearing the permanent marks of countless fights. His fingers flex involuntarily, as if he can still feel the phantom weight of a scalpel instead of a gun. The tattoos that wind across his skin seem to mock the path he might have taken, inked reminders of the life he chose instead. Each dark line etched into his flesh tells the story of choices made, of promises broken, of a future abandoned.
"I was good at it. Top of my class. Perfect grades, exemplary clinical rotations. My professors said I had the steady hands of a born surgeon." His voice turns bitter, self-loathing creeping into every syllable. "But then Dante called. Said the family needed me after father fell ill and he had to take over, pretend Massimo Santoro was still in charge, all the while making his vision for a legitimate empire come true. And I... I chose this life. Walked away from my residency placement without looking back. Even though she'd been gone for nearly fifteen years by then, I could still feel the weight of her disappointment crushing my chest, heavier than the cancer that stole her from us."
"Kept studying though. Couldn't let it go completely. Learned anatomy like my life depended on it. Every nerve cluster, every pressure point, every vulnerability in the human body. Memorised surgical texts in between jobs. Told myself it was to be more efficient at what I did. That knowledge would make me better at protecting the family."
His laugh is hollow, devoid of any humour, echoing with years of self-recrimination. The sound sends a chill down my spine, more effective than any scream could be.
"I kept my textbooks," Angelo admits, his voice low, rough with emotion. "Hidden in a safety deposit box like they wereevidence of a crime. Sometimes I'd visit them, run my fingers over the pages, remembering what it felt like to want to save people instead of destroy them."
A muscle jumps in his jaw, the only outward sign of the turmoil beneath his controlled exterior. His eyes, usually so unreadable, now hold a haunted quality that makes my breath catch. This is Angelo stripped bare, revealing the fractured pieces of himself he keeps hidden behind walls of cold indifference and calculated violence.
He looks at his hands again, and I see the war playing out across his features. The battle between who he is and who he might have been. His fingers tremble slightly, a rare show of vulnerability from a man who prides himself on control.
"During my surgical rotations, I saved a little girl. Car accident. Her spine was damaged, and the attending said she'd never walk again. But I saw something he missed, a fragment of bone pressing against her spinal cord. Tiny thing, barely visible on the scans." His voice grows distant, lost in the memory, softening with a tenderness I've rarely heard from him. "Took me four hours to remove it. Steadiest my hands had ever been. When she took her first steps six months later—" He shakes his head, swallowing hard against what might be tears. "Her parents cried. The nurses cried. And I knew that was what my hands were meant for."
The bitter laugh returns, sharper now, cutting through the momentary warmth of the memory. "Three days later, Dante called. And now?" He flexes his fingers, the moonlight casting shadows across the scars and calluses. "Now, these same hands that once saved a child's ability to walk have broken more bones than I can count. My mother would hate knowing the truth. That I only learned how the body works, so I could take it apart more effectively. Where to cut to cause the most pain without killing. How to keep someone alive longer during interrogation, pushingthem to the very edge without letting them fall over. Every bit of medical knowledge twisted into something dark, something she'd have wept to see."
I absorb his words, the weight of what he's telling me settling like stones in my chest. The hands that have held me so gently, that have traced my scars with reverence. Those same hands have inflicted unimaginable pain. And yet, I feel no revulsion. Only a deeper understanding of the man he's become, and why my trust in him matters so much.
My heart breaks for him. I shift, wrapping my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest. His heartbeat thrums against my cheek, steady and strong despite the pain lacing his confession.
I reach up, cupping his face in my hands, forcing him to meet my eyes. "I want you to be the one to removeitfrom me."
His eyes widen, and he immediately starts shaking his head. "Kasia, no. I've been thinking about this. As much as I don't want anyone else touching you, it's been years since I've held a scalpel. I'm not qualified, I could—"
"You're the only person I trust," I interrupt, my voice steady despite the fear coursing through me. "Those hands that saved that little girl, that wanted to heal before this life claimed you—I trust them. I trust you."
"Butterfly, you don't understand. The risks—"
"I understand perfectly." My thumbs brush across his cheekbones, feeling the tension radiating from him. "I understand that your hands have taken lives, but they've also saved them. I understand that you chose darkness over light, but I also understand why. And I know that if anyone can give me back my freedom, it's you."
His breathing becomes uneven, conflict warring in his eyes. "If something goes wrong—"
"Then I die free," I say simply. "Not as Jerzy's weapon, but as myself. With the man I—" I stop myself. "I trust."
He sighs, closing his eyes.
"Everything we know, everything we did, led us to each other. That's worth something, isn't it?" I whisper, my voice barely audible even in the quiet of the room. The thought crystallises in my mind, sharp and clear amidst the chaos of our lives. Perhaps there's meaning in our broken paths, some cosmic balance in how our jagged edges fit together.
His arms come around me, tightening with a desperation that mirrors my own. He holds me like I might disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly, as if I'm something precious rather than damaged. The realisation sends a tremor through me. How strange to be valued for exactly who I am, scars and all.
"Everything," he agrees, his voice rough with emotion. "It's worth everything."
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me. There's a terrible beauty in our shared pain, in finding someone who understands the weight of carrying ghosts. Neither of us can erase our pasts, but perhaps together, we can build something from the ashes. Something real. Something ours.
We stay like that for a moment before I pull back slightly. "I don't know which is worse. Losing the ability to move or Jerzy getting his hands on me again."
Angelo's expression hardens. "Neither will happen. I promise you that." He's quiet for a long moment, weighing options. "We'll wait for Arrow's jammer. It's the safest option. Then, if it works, we'll consider surgery. After Jerzy's dead."
I want to argue, to push for immediate action, but I see the fear in his eyes. Not of me, but for me. It's strange, being cared for like this. Having someone whose first instinct is to protect rather than use.
"Fine," I concede, though every cell in my body screams to get this thing out of me now. "But promise me something." I meet his gaze steadily, needing him to understand. "If Jerzy tries to use it—If I become a threat to you or your family... You'll do whatever it takes to stop me."
His expression darkens, storm clouds gathering in his eyes. "That's not going to happen, Butterfly. I'll destroy him before it comes to that," he vows, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "No one controls you but you. Not anymore."
The promise in his voice makes me shiver, not from cold, but from the fierce protectiveness radiating from every word. Angelo Santoro, the man they call Savage, just swore to wage war against anyone who'd dare take my autonomy again.
